


Let There Be Light

by WeKeepTolkien



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Fuck Eöl seriously, Sadness basically, Sexual Abuse, Unstable mental state, Vague mentions of the suicidal nature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 10:24:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3688701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeKeepTolkien/pseuds/WeKeepTolkien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a little fic I wrote about Aredhel, mainly concerning her dealings with Eöl. More of a drabble to be honest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let There Be Light

In the beginning, there was freedom; revelry.  
In the beginning her course took her where the winds themselves did not know, through trees and across leagues of her joy’s creation. Naught but her and her horse- contained by none, bridle and bit cast aside, every bit the autonomous eagles they emulated as they soared upon the grassy knolls.  
In the beginning there was escape, safety in familiarity- (guilt drowned in denial, but her brother should know, understand, ever had walls of good intentions stood to stifle her)-life.  
In the beginning there was life, but she could not remember it now.  
She couldn’t remember, she was here and could not remember, and he was here, and he was smiling and she was dying, dying, and she could not remember. How had she come to be here?  
Why?  
As the candle is pinched to an effortless extinction, so is she, the last of her that had been, that perhaps still was- smoke now. Aredhel dissipates, she thinks, fleeing the hellish grip of his fingers about the wick of her fea. Aredhel escapes, she pleas, to a callous and un-answering god.  
Aredhel ends, she knows, at the demonic hands of the chthonic being that walks these halls, that imprisons her, that forces- forces- forces.  
Eol.  
A white city illuminates the oppressive surroundings, and a brother’s tears hold her close; Turgon would care, loves, and is alone now, siblings wandering the maze of their minds trapped in stone. His light, she thinks, she would never begrudge again.  
And this light- this is hers, she will not let the wretched creature corrupt it, the hope she can feel fluttering inside- and she covets her saving grace but loathes as well, her weakness in allowing a child. She was weak, and asks forgiveness from no one save her sweet babe, used by their own mother as a shield, manipulated by their dead mother, forced to live amongst the prowling monster.  
But his eyes. Fingon’s eyes, her mother’s eyes, bereft not of compassion, even in the dank walls of Eol’s insanity. A frail, pale hand, trembling lightly within her brown one, understanding. (To her, they were Turgon’s eyes as she had hoped they would be, in the early days of her flight.) He knew, Lomion knew why and loved her still, his trust safely ensconced in her grasp- and she knew as well.  
She must stand. She was not smoke, but the spark that remained to give life, to burn its assailant. Aredhel lived, and fought.  
Aredhel lived, knew remembrance and its foul touch but lived yet, Aredhel breathed, Aredhel would return.  
Oh, how she had missed life.

(And he had to tear her asunder once more - but she won, won against his cruelty, won for the child sobbing above her, won her independence back.) 

In his end, there was freedom; revelry.

**Author's Note:**

> Can also be found on my Tumblr: http://keeptolkien.tumblr.com/tagged/my%20fics  
> Talk to me about my headcanons!


End file.
